


but you'll look sweet upon the seat

by Maculategiraffe



Series: it won't be a stylish marriage [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Captivity, Devotion, F/M, Kneeling, Love, M/M, Music, Overstimulation, Prostration, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reading Aloud, Sex Toys, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Sort Of, Supernatural Elements, foot kissing, god idk how to tag this, it's complicated - Freeform, that was marked common!!, what is this website!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-09 21:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12285090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maculategiraffe/pseuds/Maculategiraffe
Summary: ok I really am done now(I might write more snippets in this 'verse eventually but it feels finished now.  hooray!)





	1. yours to use

She lets him sleep in the next morning; when he wakes up in his new room (which looks remarkably much like the old room) it’s almost noon, breakfast cooling on a tray on the nightstand. He eats quickly-- cold oatmeal is fairly disgusting, but she could be coming in any minute and, as she’s observed before, he needs to keep his strength up. He’s ravenous, anyway, and hunger’s the best sauce.

(It’s just the hunger that comes from a late meal, though, not the bone-deep, suffering hunger that once helped him wolf down whatever garbage was tossed to him as a mercy, or otherwise. He’s not hungry enough to consider eating his own fingers. Not any more. And neither is Harold. She’s still going to be feeding him regularly; she took the trouble to tell John so, last night, when she put him to bed. How could Harold not realize how lucky they are?)

He licks the bowl clean, then makes the bed, showers, cleans himself thoroughly inside and out, cleans the bathroom (she likes things neat), brushes his teeth, dresses, and she still hasn’t come in, so he goes to the bookshelf. 

New bookshelf, but the same books are there. He’s read them all, by now, but he’s never asked her for more-- doesn’t want to waste a favor on something like that, he doesn’t mind rereading-- and he’s never asked her, either, why she picked the ones she did to put in his room in the first place. Most likely she just went to a library sale and grabbed up a random armful of fifty-cent novels. 

He picks one, lies down on the bed with it, and is still reading when she comes in, with a little carrying case in her hand, and closes the door softly behind her. 

He looks up, but doesn’t get up; she’s told him it isn’t necessary for him to prostrate himself, or even come to any elaborate stance of attention, when she enters, unless she gives him a specific order. 

She can tell how he reacts to her presence, of course. In the early days, he used to try not to shake, try not to show too much fear, in case it insulted her; today, he lets himself shiver a little. Wonders what’s in the case. 

She notices, but doesn’t comment. Sets down the case just inside the door, comes over to him, leans down, reaches to ruffle his hair affectionately, and says, “What are you reading?”

He puts his bookmark in and holds the book up, showing her the cover. 

“I found that one quite instructive,” she says, startling him. The book’s about a high-class call girl in Victorian London, her dickwipe boyfriend who owns a soap company, and his ingenue wife who’s going insane from a brain tumor, with a subplot about the dickwipe’s brother’s giant boner for a philanthropist widow with TB who also has a lady-boner for him but they can’t bone because of whatever Victorian bullshit. He’s not sure which part of it Daisy would’ve found instructive.

“Read,” she says. “Aloud. From the top of the left-hand page.”

Well, it’s certainly not the weirdest thing she’s ever made him do.

He opens the book again, to where he was, and reads aloud:

“‘My wife,’ he says, ‘is a madwoman.’ Sugar cocks her head, in a mute gesture of aghastness, after considering and rejecting such declarations as ‘Really?’ ‘Well, fancy that!’ and ‘How dreadful!’ All her working life, men have been telling her their wives are mad, and still she hasn’t hit on a serviceable way of responding.”

Daisy giggles, and he wants to look up at her-- he’s sort of surprised she even gets why that’s funny-- but she told him to read, and he continues, “‘She was a sweet, kind-hearted girl when we first married’--”

Daisy’s unbuttoning his jeans, unzipping them. Usually she makes him take off his own clothes, but he can’t do that and hold onto the book.

“--he laments, ‘a credit to anyone. She had some odd ways, but who hasn’t?’” His jeans and underwear are being pulled off; he shifts to make it easier for her. He’s not wearing shoes or socks, rarely does; there’s not much point. “‘I couldn’t have known she’d become a candidate for an asylum; that in my own home, she would…’”

She’s got his bottom half naked now, is positioning him face down over the bed, bent at the waist, legs apart, his ass exposed to her. 

“He stops short, closes his eyes in pain. ‘There was no happier girl when I first met her. Now she despises me.’”

The words _pain_ and _she despises me_ send a chill through him as he reads them, along with the stance. She’s never beaten or whipped him, and usually if something she does, or makes him do, is going to hurt, she tells him first. But if she’s angry-- is she possibly angry because he didn’t put the book down when she came in? Was that rude? She doesn’t insist too much on protocol, but she’s a bit of a stickler for what she considers good manners.

“Keep reading,” she says, the delicate hint of a warning in her voice, and he resumes hurriedly, “‘What a tragedy,’ breathes Sugar, venturing, hesitantly, to lay a condoling hand on his knee. It is accepted.”

As he reads the words, he feels a rush of warmth, not literal warmth but one of those things she does that feels like a non-physical caress or kiss or smile, gentleness and good humor washing over him. She isn’t angry. He breathes easier, is sure she can hear the husky relief in his voice as he reads on, “‘I imagine she’d love you still, if only she could.’”

Her hands are at the sides of his head; she’s putting earbuds in his ears, music already playing as she inserts them. He catches his breath; it’s Green Day again. So that _was_ her, last night, playing the song for him somehow, or else she heard him hearing it, or thinking about it later. It isn’t the same song, though, and it’s not the beginning of the album, either. 

_Drain the pressure from the swelling, the sensation’s overwhelming…_

“‘The maddening thing-- I mean the thing that puzzles me most-- is that she changes from day to day,’” he reads-- it’s much harder to read aloud with the music in his ears, she must know that, and that’s before she starts lubing up his asshole. She usually has him do that himself too, if he’s going to need it, but again, he’s holding the book. _Tell me that I won’t feel a thing._ “‘Some days she’s as normal as you or I, and then suddenly she’ll do or say something wholly outrageous.’” He grunts as her fingers slide in deeper, thoroughly slicked-- she’s generous with lube, used to have to tell him to use more, not be shy. She doesn’t want to hurt him, except when she does.

“‘Like?’ Sugar’s voice is small and unobtrusive.” He tries not to interrupt himself with a yelp as something that doesn’t feel either small or unobtrusive lines up with his well-prepped asshole, as she turns the vibration on and slides it, slowly, carefully, in. His vision swims; he tries desperately to focus on the words on the page, to make his thickened tongue work right. He knows he’s going to start saying song lyrics by accident if he doesn’t focus very, very hard. _Kiss the demons out of my dreams._

“‘She believes she’s being watched by angels,’” he gasps out. “‘They wave to her, she says.’”

She fucks him, slow and deep-- she knows exactly where his prostate is, too, the unseelie wench-- as he blinks away tears so he can keep reading, losing all sense of what the sentences actually mean, mechanically dragging himself forward from word to word as his lips go numb. He can't pause, even to catch his breath, he'll lose his place. As long as he doesn't pause, he can keep going, he won't forget how to read or how to say words or have to crack and beg like he did once, _DaisypleaseIreallycan't_ (she didn't get angry, just stopped and made a face that said, in cool GPS-lady tones, _Recalculating_ , and let him rest), he can do this.

He moans and reads into the rhythm of her thrusts, catching a phrase here and there on the way out of his own mouth, in between dragged-in sobs for breath: "clenches and unclenches," "into her embrace," and there's still a corner of his consciousness semi-free to notice that the song's on repeat, _Out of body and out of mind,_ "All sorts of things," and then he almost panics as he reaches the end of the two-page spread, scrabbles to turn the page so he can keep going, does panic as the page rips in his clumsy grip. 

The vibrator goes still inside him, still vibrating but not fucking, and her hand comes around to take the book away, while her other hand touches and caresses his back reassuringly. Oh, it’s enough then, it was enough, it’s over--

But it’s not. She slides a hand into his hair, grips, pulls him up by it. He cries out quietly, so quietly he can’t even hear himself over the music in his ears, as she turns him around-- the earbuds stay in, so does the vibrator, there’s something dragging at the collar of his shirt, he can’t think-- and pushes him towards the bathroom. Which might-- _Drain the pressure from the swelling_ \-- he doesn’t want to be presumptuous and assume, but it’s been established that he’s not allowed to come on the bed, or the rug, the bathroom being easier to clean. 

She stands him palms against the bathroom wall, kicks his feet gently wider apart on the tiled floor, starts fucking him again, faster, he cries out again, _Give me a long kiss good night and everything’ll be all right,_ his cock is so hard it hurts and he wants so badly to rub up against something, anything, the wall, and then her warm hand wraps around him and she holds the vibrator just right, and gives a strong, rippling pull, and he comes, crying out, tears spilling over, of relief and gratitude and pleasure that blinds his eyes.

When she pulls the vibrator out, he starts to drop to his hands and knees, to clean up his mess before it gets cold, because if he thinks congealed oatmeal is unappetizing-- but she won’t let him. She slides an arm around him, steps in close, takes the earbuds from his ears and whatever was at the collar of his shirt, and steers him back towards the bed, supporting his weight when his legs threaten to buckle underneath him. Helps him lie down, on his stomach. Sits down in her chair by the bed, reaches to stroke his hair.

“Thank you,” he gasps, when he can.

“You did well,” she answers. 

Normally at this point she’d ask what he’d like for a reward, but he’s already in pretty deep debt at the company store, from last night’s mercy. Letting him see Harold, leaving the room so they could talk alone, suspending punishment and promising they can see each other regularly: he owes her, by his most conservative calculations, about a million and one sessions like this before he can consider himself back in the black. And she already did him the kindness of letting him come, and didn’t even want him to lick it up afterwards, because she must have realized he doesn’t really like doing that, even though it’s practical. He can clean it up later, with a cloth, rinse it down the drain. She’s so good to him, he’s never belonged to anyone so gentle and generous, it’s possible he’s high on endorphins or oxytocin or whatever your body secretes after you nut, but it really is funny that the kindest person who’s ever owned him isn’t even a person.

“Humans are hardly qualified to own other humans,” she says, sounding a bit sleepy and sated herself. “Most of you have managed to notice that, by now.”

Maybe she’s right. Slavery’s wrong: he knows that. But he also knows he doesn’t mind being owned, not when it’s by someone kind. He likes knowing what’s expected of him, likes straining every nerve to do it right, and then being told _You did well._

It’s not the same for everyone-- it’s not the same for Harold, which is presumably why Harold’s been behaving so badly with Daisy, why he set up that signal, why he’s rude to her. It isn’t in Harold’s nature to kneel, or to obey. Harold should be the one giving orders, the one with John at his feet, at his mercy, kissing his shoes, shivering with pleasure at a hand in his hair--

He tenses suddenly-- what a weird train of thought, he really must be delirious. Harold would never want-- and even if he did, it’s not as if-- 

“Daisy?” he blurts.

“Yes?”

He’s only just remembered. “I’m sorry I tore the book.”

She laughs softly. “It’s all right, sweet John.”

She puts something down on the bed beside his head, and he tries to see what it is, but his eyes lose their focus when she stands up.

“Yours to use,” she says. “I’ll bring you something to eat in a little.”

He hears her cross the room, the door open and close. When she’s gone, he lifts his head to see what’s on the bed beside him. Wires-- a TENS unit?-- no, it’s the earbuds, and what they’re connected to, the thing she had clipped to the collar of his shirt. An mp3 player. 

_Yours to use._

He’ll thank her when she comes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is an erotic fantasy about being able to put ["Give Me Novacaine"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZKAwIwjHwZI) on goddamn repeat instead of manually skipping the track back every time it starts to transition into "She's A Rebel")


	2. to have and to hold

"What do you do for her?" Harold asks, his voice tense with disgust, and John just shakes his head. The disgust hurts, like hell actually, but it's not like he can blame Harold for having standards.

"This is why I didn't think it would be a good idea for us to--" He gestures between them. It's hard, because it's so, so good just to see Harold, but-- "You know? Let's call the whole thing off."

"No, I--" Finch takes off his glasses, polishes them on his shirt. White T-shirt-- suit privileges have been rescinded for now, he's dressed like John, T-shirt and jeans, barefoot.

He's sitting in the chair by the bed. John's never sat there, has always thought of it as Daisy's chair and not his, but it's the only chair in the room and Harold clearly wasn't inclined to sit on the bed with John. And she's never actually said it was off-limits to anyone but her. 

"I won't ask, then," Finch resumes. He hasn't put his glasses back on, isn't exactly looking at John. "I simply felt it would-- behoove me, to know exactly what-- lengths-- but I suppose I can imagine. Based on what I saw last night."

"Yeah," says John. "Don't, though. Imagine," he clarifies, when Harold looks at him strangely. "No point. It's OK, Harold. It could be a lot worse." And has been, quite recently. But if Harold doesn't already know what John did, and had done to him, at the agency, John's not about to be the one to tell him. "It's not so bad, really, not at all. She takes care of me."

Oh, what's that look? It's pain, why is it pain? Why does it hurt Harold, to hear that someone else is taking care of John?

"Well," says Harold, after a moment. "There's no need to belabor the point."

"Nope," says John, trying for cheerful. "Let's talk about something else. You OK? She's treating you right? Feeding you? You got an OK bed?"

"Given that I'm apparently here as hostage to your good behavior," says Finch, "that's hardly a change of subject."

John sighs. "Look, Harold, if I could get you out of this, I would. Hell, maybe someday I will." It's not like he needs Harold in the same house-- or the same city, or the same country, or the same solar system-- to feel the way about him that Daisy feeds off. And it's not like, if Daisy did ever let Harold go, she couldn't track him down again if John ever tried anything. Maybe someday she'll trust John enough. He hates the idea-- Harold's so much safer here, from shit potentially much worse than death-- but freedom's important to some people, and obviously Harold's one of them, so. "But for right now-- you asked what you could do to help, and the answer's still the same. Be polite. Play it cool. Enjoy the vacation."

Finch makes a complicated face. "At your expense."

"Drop in the bucket," John promises. 

Finch squints, puts his glasses back on. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"The rest of my life," says John, half aggravated at having to spell it out; Finch is usually faster on the uptake. Didn't John already say this, last night? "What the hell else did you think I was going to do with it? Where'd you find me, anyway?"

"I'm perfectly well aware of where I found you," says Finch tautly. "What does that have to do with--"

"You saved me," says John, because apparently Finch requires him to state the fucking obvious for some reason. "Then, and every day since then. You still do. Every day. Every minute." 

What's that look? Not the same pain. Shock.

Really?

"You don't know?" he asks, astonished. "Hell, Finch, didn't she tell you why she bought us?"

"I hate to hear you talk like that," says Finch, a little mechanically. "We aren't possessions, we're human beings."

John rolls his eyes. "OK. Didn't she tell you why she took a shitload of money and gave it to some people and now we live at her house and we're not allowed to leave?"

"There's no need for that tone," says Harold, just barely leaving off the _young man_ from the sound of it, God how John missed that disciplinary inflection, the pinch of Harold's lips when John gets mouthy. "And no, in point of fact, she hasn't been particularly forthcoming. She gave me to understand that her main interest was in you, and that I'd been appended to the deal by way of... leverage." He stares John down. "I gathered, from the fact that I hadn't been harmed or hurt-- that I was leading quite the pampered existence, in fact-- that you'd complied quite readily with her... demands."

"Readily's the word," says John, feeling, abruptly, stupidly happy. Because he's pretty sure, all of a sudden, that that tension in Finch's tone isn't actually disgust. Finch definitely isn't happy about what he thinks John's been doing with Daisy, but-- John's almost sure, now-- that's not why. "Oh, wait. She used a good one the other day. Alacrity. I complied _with alacrity_. As soon as she said you were OK. Finch, I thought she would've told you." He's grinning a bit, he can't help it. "It's not sex-- I mean, she uses sex, sometimes, but that's not what she wants me for. She's not even human, Harold, what do you think she wants with the D? It's--" All the words and phrases she used, the first time she spelled it out for him, spin past, _devotion, fealty, protect and serve, bodyguard kink._ None of them sound right, not from his mouth. These vocabulary grandmasters, with their polysyllables. "Love. That's what she feeds off. She said I was like a fucking beacon, she spotted me or smelled me or whatever a million miles off, the way I love you."

And there it is. The hardest thing in the world, and it was-- easy.

Easy, because he's not asking for anything. Easy, because he can't. And because he doesn't have to explain himself; everything he means, everything he'll do and suffer and give, forever, was already out there, so obviously he thought Finch-- supergenius that he allegedly is-- already knew. 

Finch didn't know. It's all over his face. It's sort of beautiful. Not that Finch does much with his face that isn't, to John.

"She bought me because I love you," he says, and it feels so good to say it, after all this time, like food and water and rest and praise, blessed relief. "She can taste it, it's-- she says it's sweet. When I do things-- because it's for you-- that's what's good for her, that's what she likes, that's what she needs. Me doing it for you." 

"For me," says Finch, numbly.

"Because I love you." OK, he's said it enough times now. Three's the number of divine completion. As Finch would say, no need to belabor the point.

"When you--" Finch sounds like he's having trouble breathing. "When you-- crawl for her-- kiss her feet--"

John gets off the bed, and down onto the floor, onto his knees, onto his elbows. Both hands are free this time. He wonders what Finch did with the rock. 

His hands curl around Finch's ankles-- loosely, plenty of leeway for Finch to pull them away, or kick John in the face. If he feels so inclined. Apparently he doesn't.

John's lips touch cool skin. Harold's feet are just as astonishingly strange and lovely as the rest of him. John doesn't lick. Doesn't even part his lips. It would feel too bold. 

(He's much shyer, now, than he was with Daisy's shoes. Than he is with Daisy. With her, he's not shy. Scared, sometimes, but not shy. They both know what he's for. Harold maybe doesn't. Or maybe doesn't want it. But. He isn't pulling away.)

Even if it's just this once. Just to show Harold. Once and never again. This will always have happened between them, at least this once, to close eyes and remember: these reverent kisses, John's lips on Harold's feet, before him on his knees, on the floor, where he belongs.

_"John--"_

It isn't a reprimand. It sounds almost like a plea. But not-- John thinks-- for him to stop.

He hears the door open behind him, Harold's intake of breath. He doesn't lift his head. Kisses Harold's left instep.

"Well," says Daisy's voice, extremely pleased, while John kisses. "I told you I'd ask, someday. Isn't he a good boy, Mr. Finch?"

Finch gives a little gasp before he says, again, shakily, "John," and then, more firmly, "John-- kneel up."

John does. Breathless, from-- well-- everything. From Daisy's ravenous interest in this scene, his own hot flush of shame (should he be ashamed? but why? how could he be different?) and of joy, the commanding tone in Harold's voice. He kneels up, looks up at Harold, waiting.

Finch's hands come down and cup his face, gently. He doesn't lean down further. He just looks. Looks and looks. As if he'll never be tired of looking.


End file.
